


Behind The Curtain

by TheHatterTheory



Series: All Dogs Go To Heaven (or something like it) [2]
Category: Captain America, Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Companion Piece, different POVs, randumb plot things here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/pseuds/TheHatterTheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of snapshots of what's going on while Tony is in Asgard.  Companion to When Silence Falls, each chapter will be a complete oneshot.<br/>(on hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Solace

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am all over the place with When Silence Falls, since it will take place in Tony's POV and because playing with what everyone is doing on Earth (or even in Asgard) is too much for my muses to resist. Differing POVs etc. Probably a lot of wangsting, definitely some humor, just a lot of randumb. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created by Marvel

Steve doesn't drink. It's a well known fact in the Avengers Tower. It had been the source of much derisive (and then friendly) teasing from Tony Stark, which had never bothered him, because Steve doesn't (didn't) drink. Steve hates beer because it reminds him of people that are gone, or going gone, of smoky bars that should have sent his asthmatic lungs into fits, or blackouts and shuddering yellow lights and dances that have but never been and will never ever be. He doesn't drink beer.

The smell of peppermint will sometimes waft by, and he will remember schnapps and the man that offered it. He will remember a drink that never happened, but should have. Steve doesn't (didn't) drink liquor. He doesn't like the smell of peppermint or schnapps, in fact he studiously avoids anything resembling german alcohol, because he's not sure, but he might hate it, not on principal but because it will never be that bottle or that conversation.

Steve doesn't (didn't) drink. Not because he was America's Boy Next Door, as Tony had been fond of saying, but because the taste didn't appeal, and there was no reason to suffer it if it wouldn't provide the sort of solace it afforded everyone else. So Steve doesn't (didn't) drink. Not after that first time trying.

Except Steve is sitting in his room, a bottle of scotch on the table, the label proclaiming that it is older than him (and for once something in the tower is, even if it's just booze), a glass in his hand, three fingers full of a rich amber liquid that has the unmistakable smell of alcohol and oak. Steven Rodgers, Captain America, the man with a body so clean D.A.R.E. begged him to be their posterboy, is sitting, hand careful around the crystal glass stolen from the bar three floors up, nostrils flaring now and again to take in the scent. A daily ritual that he performs alone.

Steve doesn't drink for a high, doesn't drink to escape. Steve is not like other people. Even the most avid, dedicated whiskey enthusiast will say he's wasting, because those three fingers will last for three hours unless there is a call to battle. That situation has happened more than once, and he has gone into a fight with the smell of expensive scotch on his breath, on his tongue and in his nostrils, remembering.

Steve drinks because of the smell. Because scent triggers memories better than a picture, because looking at pictures of a dead man reminds him, every time, of the twisted, blackened metal and the screaming on Jarvis's memory before the comms had cut out completely. Because Tony had always smelled like oil and grease and coffee and scotch. Steve doesn't (didn't) drink, except on the day of the funeral, on the day he lost Bucky, except for every day now, clinging to memories of the men he has lost, of the friends he has been forced to say goodbye to.

Steve takes a sip, the burn of the alcohol evaporating almost entirely, leaving behind a taste that is so strong it lingers on his tongue, his cheeks. He imagines it filling him. The scent lingers, easily perceived by his keen sense of smell. He remembers smiling, over loud obnoxious laughter and a one man show that just wouldn't quit, but had gone out in a blaze of glory that is still being talked about three months after the fact.

Steve drinks. It's well known to the Avengers, to him, to Jarvis, but no one comments, and no one will. He drinks to remember and to escape, he drinks for solace. He sometimes wonders if how he drinks, how he is forced to drink, is any different than a true alcoholic, any different than Tony. But he doesn't stop.


	2. Cinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor makes a request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to concepts or characters created by Marvel
> 
> These aren't in a particular order. Oops?

Thor stares down at the outline of a shadow given a flawed, fractured form, jaw clenching tight because he's in front of his father, and it will not do, he must not show such weakness, such regret in the presence of his king.

But it's hard, because the charred thing on the table, surrounded by sigils and symbols Thor knows he will never understand (has no wish to), the thing that looks ready to crumble into ash at the slightest breeze is his friend, it is the man he fought beside, the man who allowed him a home on earth, who threw gift after gift without thought to value at the people he loved and the people they loved. Twisted and broken and laying there like the remains of a great fire (and it, he is) that has gone out and lay dormant.

Something crackles, rustles, and Thor looks down, knowing in some distant, vague way, that the rustling is coming from the thing (person, it is a person) on the table, that the movement is the tiniest fraction of air going into lungs that are still being grown, like a terrible lab experiment from one of the midgardian horror movies he loves. It is frightening, nauseating. It is the opposite of the man, the creator who loved clean, sharp lines and stark (haha, he realizes he has unintentionally made a pun but he doesn't think to laugh at the joke) contrast. It is everything Tony Stark has never been. It is helpless and broken and and surrounded by magic and it is disturbing and it is him, somehow it is him.

"The damage was extensive, but he will soon be more than he has ever been," Odin's voice echoes from somewhere very far away, rooms away, worlds away, because the rustling doesn't stop, it's like a candy wrapper crinkling in a pocket, barely there, and Thor has the deranged urge to reach out and touch the thing on the table, to make sure it is not a trick, not some lesson of his father's meant to humble him, but he is afraid that if he does, it will crumble beneath his too large, too clumsy fingertips.

"How long will it take?" His own voice is tight and lacks anything he might call emotion. Good. Good. His father cannot accuse him of being too sentimental. He has no idea how he's doing it, keeping his hand at his side, keeping his voice even, he doesn't know how he's staying upright, keeping his food in his stomach, because Stark was supposed to have died quickly, should have been gone in an instant, but obviously it had taken him longer than an instant to die, if the memory of his form is anything to go by.

What little comfort there had been before vanishes, and Thor has no idea if the knowledge that Stark will live beyond his death, will come back to him, is any consolation.

"A month, perhaps longer to heal the soul and recreate the form. After that a healing sleep until his mind is ready."

A month. A month of magic working just to make the memory of the body into something worth inhabiting. Longer for his mind to be ready, and the implications aren't lost on him.

"He did not die easily," Thor finally rasps, closing his eyes to hide the room and it's inhabitant from his vision for just a moment.

"He did not. A spell kept him bound within his flesh until his suit disrupted the sorcerer's concentration."

The disruption. The arc reactor, Iron Man's metal heart that has always seemed like magic to Thor, the thing that had been a glowing star in the man's chest, that should be in the gaping hole on the thing's (Tony's, it's Tony) torso, but isn't. How can it truly be Stark, be Tony or Iron Man without the arc reactor, the energy humming and buzzing on his peripheral?

"He will be yours," Odin says, and Thor nods, not fully understanding the implications until he opens his eyes and sees the outline of what was once a man and would be an einherjar.

"Mine?"

"Your einherjar, your soldier. As he was your war brother in his mortal life, he will be your war brother in his rebirth."

"His memories-" Thor falters, because he knows why, understands why tradition is what it is, knows there is such reason, reason he cannot fully comprehend because he has not died, but there is a selfish whisper in him.

"What of them?"

"Do not erase them."

"Tradition-"

"Is not law. I would not face my war brother as a stranger." It's selfish, he knows it's selfish because Tony will remember everything, but without the arc reactor, without the suit, without the memories or the personality, it won't be Tony, and he cannot face the man without something to prove it's him. He can't command a stranger wearing a comrade's face.

"Longer will he remain in the healing sleep."

"He would prefer to keep them," Thor excuses, and it's an excuse, but it works. It's a half truth that will do Tony no favors.

"As you will it, son."

"Thank you, father."

"He will not be allowed back on earth until the living have forgotten his name."

Thor knows this, knows that forgetting is an absolute, and not a metaphor. A sacrifice he is willing to make for his selfishness.

"I know."

"It would be wise not to speak of this to your comrades."

"I know." The words are bitter on his tongue, and he imagines that the charred thing on the table is breaking apart, grain of ash by flake of bone, polluting the air and flowing into him, resting on his tongue as punishment for what he's asked.


	3. Lattice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki muses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created and owned by Marvel
> 
> AN: No chapter this past weekend, been busy trying to get my other story finished. Take this instead?

Loki knows even before his father appears, unbidden and most unwelcome in his chambers, what is coming. The events of the day are too telling, too important, too secret for the god king to allow for feigned ignorance. He guessed that his father would come, knows what the wizened king will attempt, and has already created safeguards and walls, has hidden truths so deeply they are almost a secret, even to him.

"You know," Odin says, a statement or an accusation, he can't tell. The old man is almost as gifted a liar as he is, perhaps better when he's of a mind. But now is not one of those times. Now there is something sharp in Odin's gaze, something honed to a fine edge that threatens to cut Loki down if he does not navigate this field carefully, does not provide the correct answers. It is not the first time he has seen that sharp edge, that readiness, but it is the first time he feels a flicker of fear, as he has not felt of his father since he was a child and the All Father towered over him like an ll seeing, all knowing shadow.

"If you're here for reprimand, know my mother insisted most strongly that I examine your newest relic."

"It was an inescapable result of his final actions."

Loki doubts it, knows that someone with the power that Odin possesses, the knowledge, is able to separate the two. It would be difficult, but not impossible.

"Happy circumstance. The power will be hidden from Sutur in such a vessel."

"He no longer knows."

Loki smirks, having predicted that bit of magic the moment Stark left the library.

"Thor doesn't know either, does he?"

"No, and he will not become aware." A command, not a request.

"And the Godhead?"

"It is not a significant enough matter to be brought to the attention of the collective." A warning, a warning and a silent threat, more than implied even for Thor. Loki wonders why the All Father is so desperate to keep this away from the Godhead. Surely they knew of the existence of the orb, and will know just as well of it's destruction. However, none are so steeped in secrets and magic as Odin. Perhaps they will not know, will not think to question what happened to the power.

Perhaps they, like most fools, will think it gone, ended utterly by a mere spark of a mortal.

"I will keep this secret, All Father, as I have kept many."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"Loki-"

"Odin, you know that your magics have long ceased to have a hold on me. That leaves us at an impasse. For the sake of efficiency, you may skip the cheap theatrics, poorly veiled threats and appeals to my conscience. The secret is safe. Good night."

"Your mother wishes to see you."

Loki feels his lips pull back in a snarl, hates that the old fool can still pull so much from him with a single sentence. But he does not want to face his mother, not yet, perhaps for not some time. Of everyone in his not-family, Frigga had never seen him as he truly was, and it was something he had never wanted her to see. Now he's not sure how to face her, not when she has solid proof that he is not hers, is a monster beneath the marble white facade he holds in place.

"I will see her in my own time, All Father."

Loki hears Odin sigh as much as he sees the slight sagging of shoulders. But the old man is a liar born an bred, this Loki knows and remembers better than anyone residing in Asgard, perhaps in all of the realms. Every movement, every sigh and syllable are suspect, nothing can be trusted at face value. Odin is an actor, a manipulator, and never stops, always three moves ahead. The proof stands testament, himself and the newly acquired einherjar that is not an einherjar at all, both held without their consent, without their knowledge. A wry, almost bitter irony is that Loki learned everything he knew from the man, acts no differently, and is vilified.

Perhaps there is room in Asgard for only one liar to be loved.

"See that you do, son."

"Good evening, my lord."

Odin disappears, tired looking, sad looking, and Loki feels nothing for it, understanding that act as well as Odin. Long ago he gave up the hope of finding truth in the king's actions, and no longer devotes any time to sorting the threads of what could be, focusing instead only on the field where they move, each plotting and working around the other's plots.

Stark. He remembers him well from before, when Earth was a means to an end, a simple step to destroy Thor's heart. The Iron Man had been a researched subject, one discarded so easily because he was mortal, was human, eschewed magic in favor of science and possessed more vices than a dozen of the worst slums in the realms. Tony Stark, the half mad, sarcastic, drunken love child of the press. A fool known by all, hailed as a genius.

Loki walks over to his mirror and easily steps through, to his private workroom. Here things are neat and orderly, subtle and subdued. It is a shadow world, a dark reflection of Asgard he finds peace in. On the table is a diagram, painstakingly drawn. With a thought he creates a model of lines of light, a 3d representation that should reveal what he has been trying to discern for two days.

Sutur's Breath had been contained not in a box, although the chest forged in uru had served as a prison, the magic itself had been contained within the orb that had been forged by Odin. Odin's creations rarely failed, were often indestructible. The orb containing the breath of the imprisoned giant should have been one of those items.

And yet a mortal had not only managed to destroy it, but to disrupt the magic's energy in such a manner that, perhaps in a desperate ploy for survival, combined with his soul. A puzzle that could have had a thousand outcomes, the least of which that the mortal shell survived the death that brought Stark to Asgard. The magic is a conscious, living thing, and would seek it's continued existence.

So why had Stark died?

A jolt. Loki remembers Stark's words, shies away from the memory of the body's death because fire is his natural enemy, and Doom had made the experience worse, dragging it out. Small wonder Stark had come out of his healing sleep too soon, had barreled out of the house of healing like a half mad horse with broken legs. Not an easy death at all. Stark's mind should have blanked it out, but the half whispers that had come away, like cobwebs wrapped around his face, in his nose and mouth as he had pushed his way deeper into the subconscious had brought back other things, things perhaps worse than that death.

But Loki shies away, pulls back from those memories because they are not what he needs, not what he wants. They do not explain how the structure of the orb, the container made to hold the breath of a fire giant, was compromised. The flash of light on a screen inside of a helmet shows a slightly different pattern within the latticework of it's spell.

Had Doom changed it? Loki immediately discards the idea as completely preposterous. Doom has a pittance of power, not nearly enough to alter the structure of the spell, not even in his prime, not even with help.

Which begged the question of who had created a flaw to be exploited so perfectly, so providentially. Who had the power to do such? And much more importantly, why?


	4. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created by Marvel
> 
> Oh wow. I suck at this scheduling thing. Mostly it's that christmas is close and I'm making presents because I am poor. A new chapter of WSF should be up this weekend.
> 
> * * *

It's not that he's unwelcome, although it is, a little bit, at that. It's not that they aren't afraid of him (although they are, even though they lie through their teeth, try to hide the truth but the eyes always give it away). It's that there's nothing to block out the noise.

New York is always so full of noise. It's full of people. Like ticks on a clock their hearts are too loud, echoing in their footsteps until it all becomes one too loud, too dissonant blur. It's that they've always been a part of it, even if he didn't notice. Every flinch, every watchful stare is like glass shattering inside of his ear drums. They're worse, and he thinks he's a fool for not noticing it before.

_'We could use-'_

He knows it's stupid, because they _can_ use the other one, the thing that is just below his own skin, but only sometimes, only when it's worth the collateral damage.

There's not much glory in being the battle's 'Last, best hope'. Not when it's only a last resort, not when they're terrified even as they ask.

Not when they're terrified even when he's himself, when he's in control.

The lab is quiet, too quiet. Even with Dummy and the other bots whirring, even with Jarvis's voice, it's too quiet. There is none of the imaginative, creative cursing, no sound of tools hitting the floor or cocky, too sure theories that even he had a hard time keeping up with. There are none of the Tony sounds to drown out the crash of cars or heartbeats, no Tony noises to keep the wary gazes at bay.

The lab he's sitting in has been his home for a few short years, and they're the best years he can remember since the accident.

He's leaving it. He's about to, even though he hasn't packed any bags or looked at a passport. Even though he hasn't consciously thought about it, trying to hold on to some semblance of normalcy after everything began falling apart.

Bruce knows he won't take anything with him. No cash, no cards, no clothes. He knows he won't say goodbye, not even to Dummy or Butterfingers, not to Jarvis or You. It's not right, but then, not many things in his life are. He knows it's a coward's way to leave, but he can't face the chance they'll say something.

And that relief, that utter, staggering relief that he knows will be reflected in Steve's eyes, in Natasha and Clint's, maybe even in Thor's, will trigger something, and he is terrified it will be enough, will force that grief to the surface. The self blame, the blame for others, the anger that he's lost more than they can ever comprehend will escape. He can't chance it, not yet, not when the world is so loud around him and he only wants the quiet.

Tony is the only person that didn't tiptoe around him. Funny how it's the people that should set you off are the ones that end up being the cushioning to deafen the sounds.

The elevator is quiet. The others are on a mission. The front doors open to his code, and he thinks about how it is the last time.

Sometimes there is no going back. Sometimes there is nothing to go back to.

Sometimes there is nothing there to walk away from.

He makes no apologies. Not anymore, not when he's doing what's best, or, barring that, the best for him, for them.

Ross will be on his tail soon. Ross, the ever reaching, ever angry hand that resonates on his psyche like nails on a chalkboard. The moment he knows that the Hulk is in the wind, the hunt for him will start.

People are going to die.

He'll make his apologies then.

People have died.

He misses him, more than he ever thought he'd miss anyone.

No apologies. Not yet. But-

'I'm sorry.'

It's a whisper even inside of his mind, and it's not to Jarvis or Dummy, not to You or Butterfingers or to the team, to SHIELD, not even to the people that he knows will get hurt sooner more than later.

'I'm sorry.'

He can't stay, can't hold true to the promise he made to the best friend he had ever had.

'I'm sorry.'

Other apologies will come later. Maybe never. The Hulk is beneath his skin, has been waiting. He can feel it, can feel him, can feel the grief the Hulk feels. It's one of the few things they share. When that thing escapes, when the grief breaks, there will be no stopping it, not until it wears itself out, and he's left with that loneliness again.

'I'm sorry.'

He walks away, telling himself that he is leaving nothing behind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created and owned by Marvel

James Rhodes is staring at the Captain, eyes clear. He doesn't cry, not in front of former military heroes, especially not in front of former war heroes telling him that he has to make a life altering decision in the span of twenty four hours.

"He gave this suit to me." He's so proud that his voice is staying even, that he's managing to keep his anger and his jealousy completely reigned in, that he's not striking out at one of his heroes even though Steven Rogers is the harbinger and the catalyst that's demanding he give up something as important to him as his own legs.

"You know what he wanted. You know what they'll do now that he's gone," Steve tells him, eyes hard and voice firm. Uncompromising.

Rhodes does know. He knows the military is foaming at the mouth, determined to find the armor and reverse engineer everything they can to figure out how it works, to make a dozen, a thousand now that Stark is gone and won't kick up dust about it. Steven Rogers is a good man, a good leader, and most importantly, a good friend. Tony's good friend, the man, super soldier or no, that fought beside Tony when it counted.

"I need some time to figure this out." Time. Time that won't make a difference because none of it will alter the truth.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

It's a threat and a promise and a death knell all rolled into one, the only thing softening it is the sigh and a strong hand that rests on his shoulder for a moment before it's gone, taking all of the strength and support with it.

When the door closes, Rhodes falls back onto the sofa he didn't pick in a room in an apartment assigned to him. After so many years on the move, all of the sofas and coffee tables look the same, he's pretty sure they are. It's probably the only reason he can't remember the last base he lived on that stood out. Same themes, same motifs, same cream colored walls. Layouts and kitchenettes that have never seen use.

Military life hasn't been all that bad to him, he thinks. It hasn't been awful. Then again, it hasn't been great, either. He knows his friendship with Tony is one of the things that helped his career. Not because Tony would bribe him to the top or even hint that it would help relations between Stark Industries and the government. No, Tony would never have done that. It was because they wanted him close to Tony. They wanted him to get close to Tony, to stay close, to influence where he could.

James smiles to himself, thinking of how well that had worked. He's covered more for Tony than he ever had for the military, for his country. But it had all been for his country. At least, that had been the rationale. What is he doing now?

But with Tony gone, the military is growing antsy. The avengers don't particularly like or respect the government. Steven Rogers is as close as it comes, and he is wary, leery of the government, of any agency that claims to work 'for the greater good'. Captain America, fighting for the ideal of America, for the Dream of America more than the American government. And Rhodes knows he can't run interference anymore, not with Tony gone. None of them will trust him as long as he remains in the military.

The pressure has been getting worse, and he knows Steve knows about it. It would be difficult not to see, to not guess at the truth.

Tony is gone, and his protection with it.

The decision to stay in his current position, to lead a long, possibly decorated career in the military is tempting, because it's all he's ever known. The military has been good to him, although not always for the right reasons. The sacrifices have always been worth it, as long as Tony had been around to let him know they were worth it.

But Tony is gone, all assurances with him.

Leaving frightens him. What would he go to, what would he do?

Christ, could he begin to step into those shoes? There was no hope of ever filling them. No one could, not when Tony Stark barely managed it. How can he hope to compare?

Rhodes walks over to his kitchen and opens a cabinet. There are glasses there, a set of crystal tumblers gifted to him by Tony, who had noticed he didn't have a set. Rhodes had never had the heart to admit to his friend that he didn't own any dishes or silverware, that he was on the move too often to need them, they things like dishes and pots and pans were simply excess baggage to someone that lived base to base, assignment to assignment.

But the glasses, he always wraps those carefully, boxes them up and makes sure to keep them with him during his moves. They are one of the few tangible things he considers important. He can't even remember why Tony thought so then, but they are now, have been since that first time.

The whiskey, old and so smooth it's criminal is also important, saved for those occasions when he needs to think, when he needs to step outside of himself, and those moments have numbered so highly that there is barely any of the whiskey left, a few inches of amber at the bottom of the bottle.

The sound of the whiskey pouring into the glass is the only sound in the apartment, the only sound worth hearing, and it's a comforting sound. It's the sound of a conversation about to commence, one that, contrary to other people's views on Tony, would have been littered with long, thoughtful pauses.

He doesn't bother going back to the living room. He doesn't like it, not at all, although it's the first time he's ever really taken the time to like or dislike something in his 'home', or any of them.

He doesn't have a home, unless it's with the military. But then, he knows that without Tony, without the suit, he wouldn't have much of anything. James isn't sure whether he appreciates the legacy.

But it is a legacy. That thought cuts through the stress and the grief. It's something Tony gave him, once upon a time. No power in the world could tell him that Tony didn't give it to him, even if he had taken it. Tony knew how to get back what was his.

A gift. Now an inheritance.

Legacy.

There was no Iron Man. There never would be again.

But War Machine, that was a slap to the face of everything Tony had done in recent years, and it's only now settling on him how much his friend must have hated that name.

Choices. Homes and not homes. Military and teams.

Legacy and sound, the sound of whiskey as it sloshes in the glass, of his own mistakes.

"I can do this."

It's the only thing he can offer, the only way to honor the man that had been his friend. The person that deserved honoring.

He doesn't try to call Steve or text. He's not dumb enough to think his entire apartment hasn't been bugged all to hell, doesn't have cameras and recordings of every movement and conversation.

When he shows up at the Avengers Tower, a box in hand and almost nothing else, Steve doesn't say anything. There's going to be a long battle ahead of them, but it's a battle Tony passed down to him, and maybe, he can be as good, as great as that incredibly self centered, selfless jackass.


	6. Monument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Potts likes most kinds of paperwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to concepts or characters created and owned by Marvel.

Paperwork. Paperwork was Pepper Pott's lifeline. It was the one thing that had always made sense in a world that didn't make sense, or at the very least, one that hadn't made sense in well over a decade, since she had first become Anthony Stark's P.A.

She used to like reading fiction. Her parents, one a librarian and the other a professor, had both loved to read. She had grown up on a steady diet of books pertaining to history (her mother's favorite subject and her chosen vocation) and fiction (her father's almost blinding passion). Narnia and Oz had been havens for a gangly limbed, skinny, too freckled teenager. Fantasy. So many places and possibilities to escape into, and she had loved them. Her bookshelves had been full of well loved, well used books full of words and worlds.

They still were, full that it. But if she pulled a book down, it would have a fine layer of dust on it.

Because fantasy and fiction were no longer escapes. Not when gods came down to earth and blew up toasters or mutants stopped by to offer condolences or sci-fi gadgetry lived and apparently mourned her best friend's passing.

Paperwork, however, with it's legalese and technicalities, with the fine print and the subtlety and traps, paperwork was solid. It was an escape. It was ironclad, or could be made to be. Numbers and absolutes.

Her least favorite kind sat on the desk in front of her. It was her least favorite kind (and yes, she had them categorized inside of her head) because it had to do with the Avengers.

She did not like the Avengers. Not because she hated superheroes. No, she understood the need, had understood the need since New York. The world needed a team like that, needed hope and defense. She didn't mind that Tony Stark had decided to fund the Avengers, to keep them free of SHIELD's direct influence and out of their command. Freelance, and able to do what they thought best instead of becoming someone's army. That was necessary, too, for the good of the planet.

She hated doing this, because the team had become more important, had become an idea, a living monument to the person she loved. She hated it because her escape had turned into a monstrous quagmire of words and agreements, or legal terms and red tape so that she could help build that monument.

Pepper looked down at the neat stack.

As sole beneficiary of everything, every last penny and every piece of property, every patent and share, she knew exactly what to do, had, despite herself and her own apparently futile hopes, made a plan a long time ago for this eventuality.

'Stark Resilient'

It had a nice ring to it, at least she thought so.

"Fury is going to be less than impressed by this," Natasha said, looking up from the folder that contained copies of the papers sitting in front of her.

"He's not my concern. Just because Stark Industries has worked with SHIELD in the past doesn't mean that will continue."

"No, but Stark Resilient will be."

"It's not the same thing," Pepper told her, voice firm.

Natasha, ever perceptive, nodded, eyes hooded and giving nothing away.

"Who will be overseeing the paperwork?"

"I've spoken to Phil. He knows a few trustworthy people willing to oversee everything."

"You're listed as CEO."

"If there are any major problems, they'll come to me. Steve is executive chairman. Any decisions regarding growth and direction will come from him."

"Absentee CEO," Natasha mused. Pepper couldn't stop herself from leveling a blank stare at the spy. It would have hidden everything from anyone but her. But it was a polite refusal to speak on the subject, and she knew Natasha would respect that, at least.

"I'll get this to Steve. He's currently in a meeting with the secretary of defense over the ownership of the War Machine suit."

"I read about that. Rhodey joined?"

"He joined."

Pepper was quiet, wanting to ask but afraid to.

"He won't be Iron Man," Natasha said, voice quiet. Pepper refrained from saying that no one ever would be again, that there would only ever be one, even if someone else tried to call themselves that.

"If you need any assistance with the proceedings-"

"Coulson is in there with him."

"Good."

There was an awkward pause. Natasha hadn't attempted to see her since the funeral, and Pepper hadn't attempted to visit her. They'd been friendly once, although not friends. But Natasha had been the closest she'd had, aside from Phil, who she'd lost touch with after New York. There was a flicker of regret, because she knew she resented Natasha now. Resented that the super spy hadn't been there instead of Tony, hadn't been able to save him, hadn't died instead of him. Most of all, that Natasha probably knew more about Tony's last few years than she ever would.

"None of us could do this," Natasha finally told her.

"He would have wanted it."

"Doesn't mean you had to do it."

"Yes, it does."

The awkwardness passed, but the silence grew, the gulf between them widened, Pepper could feel it.

She reminded herself that it was exactly what she wanted, what she needed. Tony was no longer her bridge into the fantastic and science fictional. She may have known the earth's greatest heroes, the world's saviors, but she wasn't their friend, not really. Like being at a friend's house with all of their friends, and suddenly that friend left the room, and there was nothing to hold them together. Or at least, not her to them.

"I'll see you later," Natasha told her, closing the folder and getting up. Pepper shook her hand, feeling the finality. She nodded and smiled, knowing if she spoke, she would say something rude, like 'I hope not'.

The door closed behind Natasha, and the only thing that remained to keep her tied to that world on the other side, following the super spy out of the building, was a pile of paperwork that would send the board of Stark Enterprises into fits and probably make Fury explode into a violent tirade full of expletives.

She smiled. It was a small thing, the pleasure of knowing that they'd be unhappy with something that was a good idea, a necessary choice. It was the sort of passive aggressive pleasure Tony would have gotten from doing something absolutely genius, and the idea contained within the paperwork was nothing less than brilliant.

It was a small thing. But imagining the chaos that loomed, the chaos she would orchestrate and play like the world's greatest showman, well, it was enough to make her smile a little wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stark Resilient is shamelessly stolen from the comics for my own use.


	7. Ideals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't help but be a little reminded of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to concepts or characters created by Marvel
> 
> AN: Hey look, the WSFVerse isn't dead! Working on a chapter, take a couple of these for my crappy update habits. Hopefully some clarity on Stark Resilient.

"He's not like Tony," Steve muttered, sullen.

Clint watched Steve watching Peter. The newest addition to the tower, not the first and certainly not the last, was doing his homework.

Homework.

"He's spastic enough," Natasha said, lack of concern radiating off of her in waves. Clint knew her, knew that she had made the comment carelessly because she had seen the same thing he had seen in that instant Peter had made a small discovery. It wasn't a noise per say, it was the quick, rapid fire movement as he scrambled for a pen and knocked his cup over, followed by the manic attempt to write whatever it was down down before he forgot and clean the mess at the same time(the former obviously taking precedence).

It had been a Tony moment.

"He's too young. This is, it's dangerous. Too dangerous for someone his age," Steve argued quietly.

Spiderman, an unofficial Avenger for over two months, had helped them a couple of times and done a fair job of keeping his own area of the city safe. And Steve had liked Spiderman.

Peter Parker, seventeen year old high school student, not so much.

"It won't matter. He'll keep doing it whether we claim him as one of ours or not. And with that asshat at the paper out for blood, he needs someone at his back. He's doing a good job," Clint told the man sitting at the table, hands clasped together on it's surface.

"He's too young. He can't do this," Steve tried again.

"I was younger," Natasha told him, and Clint felt his blood freeze because it was that tone, and that tone never boded well for anyone involved. He resisted the urge to duck under the table, because kindling never protected anyone. Better to take the high ground and pray the shield didn't make an appearance.

"Me too. Even when we got loose or were cut loose, we didn't stop. He won't either."

"But he's seventeen!"

"And in less than a year he'll be eighteen. Do a few months really make that much of a difference?" Clint asked.

"You know it's not about a few months," Steve growled, beginning to show the temper he kept held in check. Months of legal battles and work had left him with a harder edge, one that was becoming more apparent in the face of the Peter Parker Situation. Clint refrained from sighing when he realized the whole thing had gained capital letters when he wasn't looking. Damn.

"If he's not with us, then he is out there, alone," He finally said. It wasn't that he wanted the kid around, because, hell, kid. Child.

But in the few times he'd crossed paths with Spiderman, the kid had proven to be pretty smart, strong, and stubborn. There was something decidedly not kid-like about a teenager giving up all of his free time to fight crime. The shooting of his uncle slash father figure was probably at the root of it, and while most kids would have cried and moved on within a few years, Peter had created Spiderman.

It took a warped personality to choose to be a vigilante. Or a super hero. Or a spy. All paths were ways to try and cope with something, he knew that better than anything. No one in those sorts of professions was a whole person, and everyone had fractures before they started. The pressure of the job just made them more apparent.

Like Steve's.

"If we don't back him, SHIELD will," Clint said into the still air, knowing the exact effect it would have. Natasha had her tricks, he had his own.

"No. They wouldn't-" Steve said, sounding somewhat shocked, mostly offended, as if the notion that SHIELD was that ruthless hadn't occurred to him a thousand times before.

"They've recruited younger," Natasha said, voice back to it's normal apathy.

"Younger?" Steve asked, looking sick.

"And less useful," She added.

Clint felt bad for Steve, because it was a tough call. In the months since he'd been handed Stark Resilient, the corporation behind the Avengers, he'd been hell bent on creating a network of teams, on herding superheroes and making them work together. It was a good goal, one to prevent another death like Tony's. But just because it was a good goal didn't mean it was going to happen easily, was happening easily. Peter was just the most morally ambivalent snag so far.

"They're right," A voice said from behind Clint's shoulder. "I'm not going to stop. I haven't been a part of this club, and I don't need to be."

"It's not a club," Steve muttered, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's a team, a responsibility. You shouldn't have to worry about this stuff right now."

"Ever. None of us should have had to worry about this _ever_ ," Peter told him, brow furrowed. Clint made a mental note to coach him on toning down his expressions, he was far too open for his own good. "But someone has to, and we do. I do."

Clint resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Well. Fractured, yeah. But in an idealistic way that was going to take a beating over the next few years, no matter who he was around. Even Captain America didn't shine as bright these days.

Then again, maybe the idealism wouldn't be bad for Steve to have around. It would grate on Natasha's nerves, and his own, but Steve had been hit hard by the loss and the subsequent baskets of bullshit the military kept handing him. If anyone else tried to serve any of them with supeanas, he promised he was going to start finding perches and picking them off.

"You have to finish school," Steve relented.

"Duh," Peter huffed, as if the suggestion was so obvious it was stupid to remark upon. A Tony expression, the way his eye brows quirked. Maybe Peter was a result of his prolific oat sowing? It probably wouldn't hurt to have a full DNA profile done up by Jarvis anyway. For science.

"Good grades. No fighting on school nights. College."

"Yes mother."

Steve's shoulders sagged in defeat, and Clint smiled despite himself.

He wasn't Tony, but damn he had a way of reminding them of him. And it wasn't too bad a thing, as long as the twerp didn't break into the liquor cabinet.


	8. Encroach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She meddles where one ought not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created by Marvel
> 
> AN: Unnamed and mysterious female. ::makes appropriate ooo noises::

She watches the golden gates of Asgard, watches through the ice and iron. The future shapes itself, ever uncertain, tenuous, in the flames twining, licking up the ice, seeping into the iron that will not, cannot, be shaped by any hand.

Lives play out like the flashes of songs, shadow whispers that thread through the lifeline she has immersed herself in, the glow itself gains solidarity, becomes a living, breathing thing. Songs fade, lives blur into mere suggestions of heartbeats.

Possibilities and uncertainties are discarded as she finds the true threads, the fate threads that the sisters ply and spin. Intrusive, an unwanted visitor, she pushes past all boundaries to find the truths that are not spoken, are hidden from those that would abuse such a privilege.

She is strong, is wise, and refuses to be denied.

Sweat pours down her back, freezes into ice and shatters, unknown and unfelt as she pulls at the thread she seeks, feels the kindred cold calling, reacting to her touch. The thread that is irrevocably tangled to her own, it is snarled and knotted, beyond any hope of repair.

Sliding herself along it, she searches, see the life unfolding, sees truths she would not believe if she were in a state to comprehend. But her mission is sure, her will stronger than that of any other being.

There. There! The rasping of threads, the friction that has worn away at threads until the ephemera is weak, fragile. A small spot, a moment in time. She knows that if left untended, catastrophe will flow from within it until the all threads around it, indeed, all threads in existence, will become tangled as badly as the snarl she has wound herself within.

Such a calamity cannot befall Asgard, or it will affect her own land. No other circumstance could move her to act as she is now, but her lands, her people, are her first priority. Otherwise she would leave well enough alone. But those three whispers cannot be unheard, even in this place so far away from them. The sibilant voices linger, remind her of her purpose, strengthen her resolve.

Slowly, with such a light hand that even those watching cannot feel it, she begins her work.


	9. Northwest by Southeast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her moral compass is spinning wildly, well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created and owned by marvel.
> 
>  
> 
>  

It all comes down to orders.

Actually, it comes down to loyalty. The loyalty of a spy without a nation to call hers, only an organization that she knows for a fact will disavow her, deny her existence, if she's ever caught, if she ever slips (she's not stupid enough to think it won't happen someday, no one has endless luck and but damn she's been pushing hers these last few years).

"Your orders are to make sure no one remains in the tower," Coulson tells her carefully, words measured and even. She knows he's only following orders, because that's who Coulson is. He laid low for almost a year, pretending to be dead, not even giving her some hope that he was alive, all because of orders. He'd made contact with her only when ordered to, knowing that she would break his nose because orders were _orders_ but...

This is the organization she works for, owes her life to.

Clint still hasn't forgiven Shield. Or Coulson. He's made his loyalties clear, throwing his lot in with Rogers, with the Avengers. Natasha knows his resignation was a Stark Custom arrow sticking out of Fury's console, because everyone is asking her how the fuck he did it, but she doesn't tell, won't, because she's the world's best secret keeper (and really, that's why they keep her around, that and because she knows how to follow directions, to listen to a handler and obey a face on a screen or a voice in a phone without question...).

Coulson's face is a mask of apathy, even his eyes give nothing away. He's being very careful. There are cameras everywhere, and she's not foolish enough to think their every breath isn't registering on the audio feeds. This is important.

Because even at the worst of times his eyes would tell her what to do. But now they're saying nothing. Her moral compass is spinning wildly, well and truly fucked and she knows for once she has to make her own choice.

"I'll make sure," She says, voice even. Coulson nods tightly and doesn't even wait before turning on his heel and leaving the room. His shoes make clicking sounds on the metal floor of the helicarrier.

She listens instead of watches, eyes closed. He's tapping his finger on the file he's been holding, muffled on the beige cardstock.

Tap tap tap rapid fire bursts of code that can be seen as nothing more than nervousness, well deserved considering what he's _ordering_ her to do.

v-i-r-g-i-l

She gets it.

It comes down to loyalties, in the end, and she doesn't have a nation, a government to be loyal to.

After Wednesday, she won't even have Shield. She doesn't have Shield now, but after Wednesday, even the illusion will be gone.

But she has allies, has a home.

It's why she leaves quietly, mask in place, why she ignores the various agents that skitter out of her way, why she breathes evenly as she departs from the quincarrier. Nothing can betray the mask of quiet, cool confidence, pretended chilling, watchful indifference.

It might not be the last time she sees the quincarrier, but it's the last time she'll be welcome on it. Cut adrift before they know it, she's drowning because she can't exist on her own, not for a second, not really. There's always someone behind her, pulling her strings and she feels like she's falling, all the way back to the tower, falling into a useless heap of wooden limbs.

Clint, bless his overly perceptive eyes, Clint catches her as she walks into the tower, except it's not catching because she's not really falling, is she?

Maybe he knows. Natasha has never thought disobeying orders would leave her feeling so heavy, so light and dizzy, so unsure of herself.

"Virgil." It's all she can manage for a moment, but it's enough for Clint because he knows Coulson like she knows Coulson, maybe even better.

He gives her a minute to breathe, to steel herself. No questions, when she calls a meeting, no sly remarks, no snide commentary from the peanut gallery.

She misses Stark, knows he would have said something stupid to break the tension so she could throw a knife at him and be okay. The very thought has her pulling a knife from a concealed pocket on her hip and flipping it tightly, each arc getting impossibly smaller until she's facing everyone down, the damn thing practically sustaining itself on it's own inertia.

Her orders come out smoothly, easily.

Clint exhales slowly.

"Virgil."

No one knows what he's talking about except her, and she's not telling.

On Wednesday, when they should be gone, they are. She's nowhere near the tower, and neither is the team. They are right where they are supposed to be.

The Shield team that sneaks into the building is right where it is supposed to be too. Everything is in place.

Except the armor, the tech Fury wanted to badly it was obvious (she sees everything). In the place of suit after suit, taking places of honor in the penthouse are small piles of blackened metal, twisted and melted together into unrecognizable shapes by a soldier and a god's combined strength and rage.

She figures it's her resignation. Clint figures it's a fuck you to one up his own. He might just have a point, not that she's going to admit to it.

Nothing is salvageable, she'd had Jarvis scan and scan and scan again just to be sure. She's fighting gray hat spies that have her old strings pulling them along, fighting viciously because she doesn't have strings to hold her back anymore. Only an unsteady, ambiguous compass inside of her head, slowing down to a stop.


	10. Meddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tangled threads could disrupt the integrity of the whole, even if they ever managed to smooth themselves out, the knots would remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created and owned by Marvel.
> 
> AN: I feel like a dickish little hobgoblin right now, but it was neither Hel nor Frigga in Encroach. It's not Charlie either. ::waves hat with magic name in it:: I can only offer cookies to the person that guesses.
> 
> * * *

An audience with the queen was not unheard of, even for her, although it had been some time since she had been called away from her home to walk the golden halls of Asgard. Already missing the vast openness of the sea she preferred to sail, she ignored the guards that watched with impassive eyes and the questioning glances of servants that followed. Luckily she saw none of the other Aesir, did not _want_ to see them. She'd spent too many years distancing herself from them, from Asgard, and had no wish to rekindle relationships she had purposefully cast aside.

What startled her, when she spotted her queen, was that she had been called to the weaving room, where Frigga sat, eyes on a tapestry of changing threads.

"My lady." Charlie did her best to keep her confusion hidden from her tone, congratulating herself when the queen didn't turn to look back at her.

"Greetings, Fua. I apologize for calling you here."

The importance of the meeting wasn't lost on her, considering the loom sitting in front of her queen, hands resting over lines of threads that worked into a whorling pattern. It was considerably stable for the tapestry, Charlie remembered seeing considerably more complex patterns when she had sat attendance for the queen.

"I prefer Charlie now. And you call, I come. You're the only reason I can come and go as I please." Mostly, at least. Charlie hadn't forgotten that Frigga was also the cause for her self imposed exile, but she had a feeling the queen knew that.

"And how is Midgard?"

"I enjoy sailing."

"Still?"

"Ports constantly change."

"You were always restless. I suppose the constant flux is what appeals. And the sky must be beautiful over the sea at night."

She wanted to ask the queen to get to the point so she could leave the realm and get back to her boat. The longer she stayed, the more antsy she got.

"I have need of your particular talents. These threads run side by side for a time, but never cross. It is imperative they do so."

She started, surprise being the least of which she felt.

"Would Freyja not be better suited? She is-"

"No," Frigga interrupted, shaking her head, hands falling from the tapestry. "I chose you for many reasons, one being that you knew him at his best, and because Asgard is not your home, but Midgard."

"I don't understand."

"The union will touch Asgard, but only just. It's true impact will be felt on Midgard, where it is necessary."

"Necessary?"

"Vital."

"But I have not practiced in centuries, I doubt I could even use magic."

"No magic," Frigga sighed, finally turning to look at her. The queen looked tired, shadows haunting the brightness of her eyes. "There can be no room for doubts to surface. It must be genuine."

"But-"

"If for no other reason than it would benefit the land you call home."

That gave her pause, eyes narrowed on the woman that had allowed her freedom from her duties.

"It is specifically your area of expertise," The queen offered.

"Oh?" She asked archly, because the last time she had blessed anyone in Asgard, she had been instrumental in the worst catastrophe to ever befall it.

"Come here."

Not without a sense of wariness, she approached the queen and the loom. Frigga turned, took her hand and placed it over the threads running side by side, before they parted ways.

Images and tastes, the sensation of unbearable, burning cold and repressing, stifling heat assailed her, the darkness dimming her vision to a tunneled pinpoint seared through her retinas, branded themselves in her brain. Magic, strong and cold, hot and damped down, and hunger, a deep hunger that took her breath away.

In the next moment her hand was falling from the tapestry, back to her side. The images faded, but the phantom sensations remained, copper and iron on her tongue.

"This is-" She didn't have words for what it was. Impossible was a good start. Blasphemous was a close second.

"Vital."

"The king cannot possibly agree with this."

"This is beyond the king," Frigga told her, voice laced with a steel Charlie had forgotten. "And he cannot know, not yet."

Charlie considered her queen, the one woman she would still go to battle for, when needs came to must, despite everything. But this wasn't battle. It was something entirely different. That it was infinitely more dangerous went without saying.

"I can't cross the threads without tangling them beyond repair, you know that." It had been her gift and curse, when Frigga had first taught her the secrets of weaving.

"I know. In this instance, I think it is for the good."

"How can you say that?" She demanded,the resentment that had been simmering since she had been sent for. The easy way her queen spoke of the situation only made it worse. "How can you even think this will be for the best?"

"Because I know," Frigga said, voice deepening, eyes going dark. Charlie remembered that the Queen saw things, knew things that could be, would be. But what good would come of tangling two threads so diametrically opposed.

"You had better be damn sure, because they're more likely to kill eachother than anything." She didn't care that she was speaking to the queen in such a manner, not when the last time had gone so awry.

"I am."

Another glance at the tapestry. The tangled threads could disrupt the integrity of the whole, even if they ever managed to smooth themselves out, the knots would remain. Frigga wouldn't ask lightly, she knew that. But-

"It will be vital the the continued existence of the world you have chosen as your own," Frigga reminded her.

A damn, was that incentive. She hadn't been blind to the superheroes and gods on Midgard, nor to the need for them.

"It won't be impossible, but without magic-" She sighed, understanding why magic couldn't be used. One whiff of an enchantment and the prince would burn Asgard to the ground to find her, even if they had once been friends.

Once, but no longer. Not after Sigyn.

"Once you complete your work, you are free to stay or leave, at your leisure," Frigga said, standing up and walking past her. Taking the hint for what it was, Charlie sat on the stool and stared at the tapestry. The basket of apples next to her didn't escape her notice either.

She skimmed the first thread again, curious as to what had changed in her old friend, and flinched when it responded coldly, the cruelty running through it not lost on her.


	11. Waste Not...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki has always considered himself to have an eye for potential.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to characters or concepts created and owned by Marvel
> 
> AN: This chapter should be read after chapter 11 of When Silence Falls

Loki stared off into nowhere, fingers tracing letters that made names. He didn't register the names, the engravings, or even the faint pull of the metal running like veins between the two opposing metals, a curious combination that he would, at any other time, have been fascinated by.

Stark was an ass, but easily led by his conscience. And obviously something had needled his conscience, forcing him to create the vambraces still in his hands. Loki allowed himself to be quietly impressed, not that he would admit to any such thing aloud.

A potential lurked there, so much potential. Not even the dwarves had ever thought to create such a metal with such purpose. And the power that lurked, locked inside and Stark didn't even realize it. The skills Stark was quickly mastering combined with the agile mind and that power could easily accomplish a great many things. Not unlimited, but closer than most.

It would be such a shame to waste it, especially when Stark held no love for Odin, or even his place in Asgard. Loki doubted the All Father would be seeing any such gifts in the future. A greedy, vain part of himself trilled at the thought of having something even the god king could not obtain.

Such a waste. Odin and Thor had no idea the things Stark could do, if given half a chance and the right direction. If he could create a new alloy out of guilt, it would be a wonder to see what he would do in the name of friendship.

It wouldn't be difficult. Stark was impulsive, and gave little thought to his actions. Even if the vambraces were bordering on ingenious in their make, they still represented a clumsy, childish apology. A bribe, nothing more, however impressive the end results were.

So much potential, waiting to be used.

Loki told himself that it would be simple. Stark was a simple man, after all. The process of creating a new body for his spirit had done nothing for his heart, his emotions. He was still very, very human. And humans were easy to manipulate. Easier, perhaps, than any other species.

A brief glance down at the inside of the brace made him realize he was tracing his daughter's name. It was the only name not stricken from record, though it was a rarely spoken name. He wondered how Stark had found them all, how he had known how to write names that hadn't been spoken since he was still very, very young. Young and foolish.

It didn't matter. He told himself it didn't matter at all that Stark had found the names and carefully inscribed them into the metal, boldly devoid of ornamentation that would hide them. It didn't matter that Stark had seen a grain of truth inside of a childish (although satisfying) tantrum. It didn't matter that Stark had known how to make the already invaluable priceless.

It was just another testament to the lingering sentimentality of Stark's humanity.


End file.
